Ethan starts laughing. “I don’t go to church. I’m agnostic.”
“Is agnostic a religion?”
“Hah! No. It means I don’t believe, but I also don’t not believe.”
“Huh?” I say.
“I’m waiting for proof,” Ethan says. “Like, if God shows up and says, ‘Hey I’m real, check out my cool powers that prove I’m God,’ then I’ll believe. But until then, I’m undecided.”
“Oh.”
“Why do you ask?” Ethan says.
“You sat down and started being really nice,” I say. “Usually that means people want something.”
“See? I told you,” Ethan says. “Distrust is healthy. You’re being cautious. That’s a survival skill a lot of people don’t have.”
“It is?”
Ethan nods.
The bell rings.
“Time for class.” Ethan puts his comics back in his backpack. All but one. He slides it across the table to me. “Here, take it. Just for borrow though. You have to give it back. How about tomorrow? We can sit together again. If you want.”
For the first time all lunch, Ethan breaks eye contact. He looks at the table. Nervous. Like he’s scared of my answer.
Then it dawns on me. Ethan wants someone to sit with. Just like I do. I wonder if he doesn’t have friends ’cause he didn’t get on the football team either. Or maybe he’s just a total weirdo. Then again, who am I? I’m a total poor kid.
“Sure,” I say. “See ya tomorrow. Same table?”
Ethan smiles. “Same bat time, same bat place.”
I have no idea what that means, but I start laughing.
HOME ALONE
“There’s milk and cereal and twenty dollars on the kitchen counter, so you can order pizza one night,” Mom says. She is putting clothes into a plastic grocery bag. “No friends in the house. And no strangers either.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not stupid. Why would I invite strangers over?”
“You can go outside, but stay in the apartment complex,” Mom adds.
“I know all of this already,” I say, wishing she would shut up. I’m trying to watch cartoons, but she keeps talking.
“Are you listening?” she hisses, voice raised.
“Yes!” I yell back. “You go away all the time, I know what to do!” And I do. Every few months, Mom and Sam go on these little trips outta town. They leave me and Ford home.
Some kids might be scared to be left alone. I’m not. Not anymore, anyways.
Probably ’cause the first time really freaked me out. Ford was barely a year old and I was only nine. We’d just moved to Birmingham the week before so I didn’t know anybody. Mom said they were going to be gone just overnight. Instead, they were gone for almost four days. That doesn’t seem like a long time now, but when you’re nine, it feels like an eternity.
There was no phone number to reach Mom. We didn’t have a phone anyways, so I couldn’t even call the cops if something bad happened. Which it kinda did. The second night, someone banged on the door at like two in the morning. Whoever he was, he was yelling and kicking the door. I thought he was going to bust in and rob the place or kill me. Eventually, he went away, but I didn’t sleep that night. Or the next.
On the third day, we ran out of food. Ford wouldn’t stop crying, he was so hungry. I didn’t know what to do. I ended up knocking on a bunch of random doors till someone answered. I asked to borrow bread from this guy who looked at me like I was crazy. I’d never been so ashamed.
When Mom and Sam walked in the door, I started screaming at them. Mom slapped me so hard my teeth hurt. Then she was shouting, asking what was wrong with me. I started crying really hard. I didn’t understand it, but it was like I was real mad at them, but also real glad they came home at the same time. When I was younger I cried a lot. I don’t know why I was like that, but I don’t do it now. I almost never cry.
All the feelings that make me sad, I lock those away, deep down inside, in a safe that I drop into a dark well in my soul. Then I bury the hole and try to forget about it.
Mom grabs my head and screams right in my ear. “Did you hear me?!”
“Goddammit! That hurts!” I shout back, grabbing my ear.
Mom raises her eyebrows and smirks, like she just won a prize. “You’ll go to hell for saying that, you little heathen.”
“Can’t be worse than here,” I mutter. But I feel this big well of guilt fill up my gut. I don’t know if I believe in God, but I know you’re not supposed say his name like a curse word. I start to worry that I am going to hell for this one mistake.
As Mom puts her bags by the door, Ford starts crying. “No! Don’ go! Pease, don’! I be good. Pomise.”
“H-h-hey, st-stop crying. Rex is st-staying here with you,” Sam says. He picks up Ford, giving him a big hug. I see it, and know he’s never hugged me like that. Neither has my own dad. Not that I know of.
Sam puts Ford in my lap. I hold him, but Ford flops and squirms and pushes, bucking like a bronco, trying to get away from me. Mom pets Ford’s hair and kisses his cheeks and his forehead.
I ask, “Can you at least tell me where you’re going?”
“Only a few hours away. Don’t worry,” Mom says.
“Why can’t Ford and I go too?”
“’Cause we’re going to be working the whole time! It won’t be fun for you! Why do you have to be so difficult all the time?” she shrieks. She calms down. “You know, most kids would love to be left home alone for a whole weekend.”
“I would if I weren’t babysitting,” I say. Mom raises the back of her hand fast. I flinch. That seems to satisfy her. I hate that I flinched, but I hate more that she enjoyed it. I ask, “You’ll be back on Sunday?”
Mom groans. “I already said we would. Quit being a baby. You’re going to have a blast. Now, come give me a hug.”
“I can’t.” Ford is still crying and thrashing, wanting to go with them. Instead Mom leans down and gives us this awkward hug from above. For me, hugs are few and far between. It feels weird.
As the door closes behind our parents, Ford starts screeching. He’s so loud, you’d think he was being attacked by wild animals. When I finally let him go, he runs at the door. He slams into it and bounces off. I try not to laugh. It’s funny but it’s not. It’s like America’s Funniest Home Videos, the way he rebounds off the door. He sits there on the floor, all these tears in his big blue eyes. It’s like I can tell he’s feeling what I’m feeling. Like they’re leaving us. And they might not come back.
I try to distract him. First with some books, then with toys. I try to play with him, but he won’t have it. So I turn up the TV volume and put on some baby cartoons. All the singing and repeating stuff on those shows is super annoying, but Ford loves it. Finally, slowly, my little brother comes over and crawls into my lap.
The sun glints off his wet cheeks. Droplets are trapped on his long lashes. When he’s sad like this, I get this horrible ache in my chest, and my face gets all hot around my eyes, and my head starts hurting. I don’t know what to call it, but I hate it. I hate that our parents make us feel this way.
After a few minutes, I get up, and Ford gets this look on his face like I’m leaving too. “I’m not going anywhere,” I say. “I was gonna get you chocolate milk. Want some? I’ll make it for you.” He nods his head.
That night, I make Eggs & Wieners. It’s a recipe I made up. Sliced hot dogs and scrambled eggs with some pepper. It’s really salty. Ford loves it. After he falls asleep, I watch some dumb movie about art thieves.
We’d probably watch TV all weekend, but it’s hard to find anything good ’cause we don’t have cable. For a while we only got two channels. Until I built an antenna system out of wires and foil and metal coat hangers. Now we get six channels. Seven channels, if someone holds one end of the foil up in the air by the window, but that’s annoying.
ON SATURDAY, THE APARTMENT COURTYARD IS BUSY. THESE little kids, Ryan and Vanessa, are building with big plastic bl
ocks on the sidewalk. Vanessa’s mom is watching while she sits in a folding lawn chair, reading a book. Kids my age are chasing after one another, playing a game of hide-and-seek freeze tag. Ford is gripping two of my fingers with his five tiny fingers. In his other hand, he is holding his favorite red fire truck.
“Play fire trucks?” he asks me, except Ford always pronounces “tr” like “f.” So instead of saying “truck,” he’s says the F-word. I try not to laugh.
“Yeah, go play,” I say.
He joins Ryan and Vanessa. I stand guard. Vanessa’s mom gazes up from her book, giving me a nod. I give it back.
Benny runs past me, chased by Brad. Brad tackles him, shoving his face into the dirt, saying, “You’re it, goober.”
Benny dusts himself off, and asks, “You gonna play with us? You can be on my team.”
I want to, but I look at Ford. He seems so small and fragile. Like he could break. “I can’t. I have to watch my brother.”
Vanessa’s mom says, “I can watch him if you want.”
I shake my head no. “Thanks though.”
Benny shrugs, rejoining the others. I hate that I can’t join my friends. That I have to skip fun ’cause my parents left me in charge. With Mom and Sam gone, Ford is my responsibility. If anything happened to him—
I try not to think about that. I have crazy nightmares about a kidnapper showing up and stealing Ford. Sam and Mom practically murder me, saying it’s all my fault. And it is, ’cause I wasn’t watching Ford when I should have been. I don’t know why I dream about stuff like that, but I do, and I wake up feeling real awful.
“Woo-woo-woo-woo,” Ford says, making his fire-truck sounds. “Watch out for my fire truck!” Except he doesn’t say truck. He says the other word.
Vanessa’s mom drops her book.
I try not to crack up. Vanessa’s mom doesn’t think it’s as funny as I do. I shrug, saying, “Sorry. He has a lisp.”
FOR DINNER, I ORDER A LARGE PEPPERONI PIZZA AND A SIDE OF cheesy bread. The cheesy bread is awesome ’cause it comes with two dipping sauces. I can never decide which I like more: ranch or marinara. So I take turns dipping, every other sauce for every other bite, until they’re both gone.
Benny comes over late to watch this horror show we like called Monsters. Every week, it’s a different story. The last one was about a giant spider in a basement shaft who ate people. When I try to make Ford go to bed, he refuses. “I wanna watch too.”
“It’ll give you nightmares,” I say.
Ford shakes his head no. I force him to go to bed anyway. I’m all excited for the show. When the creepy theme song comes on, I hear whimpering and then soft crying. I realize Ford snuck out and is hiding behind the couch, watching.
Benny starts laughing. “Look at the baby cry! Hah!”
For some reason, this really pisses me off. “It’s not funny!” I say. “He is a baby.” Then I hit Benny as hard as I can in the arm.
Benny holds his arm like I shot him. Without a word, he storms out of my apartment. Which makes me even more mad. All I wanted to do was watch my show in peace and now everyone is upset.
“Turn off,” Ford is crying. “Too scary.”
“It isn’t real. It’s just TV.”
Ford is still crying though. I know how it feels to be scared—really scared—of something. And when that something won’t go away, it’s awful. I don’t want Ford to feel like that. No one should have to feel like that.
So I change the channel.
ON SUNDAY, FORD AND I ARE IN THE COURTYARD AGAIN. WHEN Benny and Brad come outside, I wave Benny over. “Sorry about last night,” I say. He shrugs, but I can tell he’s still mad. I get it. I’m that way too.
Brad says, “Come hang with us.”
“I have to watch Ford.”
“Bring him along,” Brad says. “I have to watch this baby too.” He points at Benny.
The four of us meet up with some older kids I’ve never met. Two of them are from the other side of the fence, Liam’s neighborhood. The other is named Charlie, who says he’s the apartment manager’s son. I ask, “Do you live here?”
“Used to. Before I got sent to juvie.”
“What’s juvie?” I ask.
“Juvenile hall,” Charlie snorts, like I’m stupid. “After my folks split, I stole my old man’s car. Red-hot Camaro. I was drinking whiskey and beer and crashed the vintage piece into a bank.”
“Badass,” Brad says.
“Yeah, badass,” Benny agrees.
It sounds like a lie to me. If it is true, then Charlie is an idiot. Everyone knows you’re not supposed to drink and drive. That’s how people get killed. But I don’t say that.
“You ever had Jack Daniel’s?” Charlie asks.
I don’t know what that is. I wonder if it’s like a Roy Rogers or a Shirley Temple, you know, a drink with cherries in it. I lie and say, “Sure.”
Charlie looks around for adults, then pulls a flask from his jean jacket. He takes a sip, then passes it to the two boys from the nice neighborhood. They drink a little and pass it to Brad. He takes a swig and his face goes all sour.
“Strong, ain’t it?” Charlie smirks. “I steal a little bit from my momma’s cabinet every day. Refill it with water. She’s so drunk all the time she doesn’t notice.”
Brad hands me the flask. I sniff it. I want to try it, but part of me gets worried I’ll pass out like Sam does when he drinks. And I have to watch Ford. “No thanks.”
“Don’t be a weenie,” Charlie says. “Just drink it.”
“No,” I say. I hate being told what to do. My mom does that plenty.
Charlie insists. He pushes the flask. “Drink it, pussy.”
I hate that word. It’s one of Sam’s favorite nicknames for me. So when Charlie calls me that, it doesn’t have the effect he thought it would. I don’t feel ashamed or embarrassed like he wants. Instead, it pisses me off.
“Come on. Drink it.”
The more he tells me to do it, the less I want to. I repeat, “No.”
“You’re a pussy,” Charlie says. He rears back his shoulders and fists, like he’s an ape about to attack. I surprise myself when I don’t flinch. Charlie isn’t half as big as Sam, and I bet he can’t hit nearly as hard.
“I’ll drink it,” Benny says. He takes the flask and gulps. He starts hacking and coughing and gagging, like he drank gasoline.
Charlie says, “I’ve got a game we can play.” He waves one of the quiet boys over and puts him in a headlock. “Basically, I cut off the oxygen supply until he passes out. Everything turns fuzzy and white. It’s like being stoned, but you’re only out for a few seconds.”
“That sounds dangerous. Can’t you die from suffocating?” Benny says. I think the same thing, but I’m glad Benny says it.
“That’s part of the fun,” Charlie says. On the side of the courtyard, he squeezes his arm around the quiet kid’s face until it turns bright red. Quiet kid starts hitting his arm, then scratching at it. Then his whole body goes slack. Charlie lays him on the ground real gentle. After a minute, he starts slapping his face. For a second, I think the quiet kid is dead.
Panic floods through me. I wonder what we do. Do we call 911? Do we do CPR? I don’t know how to, but I know that helps lifeguards. I look around the courtyard, thinking the cops are going to come in through the breezeways and arrest all of us for murder. I think of Ford in juvie, and I feel nauseous.
Suddenly, the quiet kid sits up, coughing for air. As he struggles to shake it off, rubbing his chest, I feel like I can breathe again too.
“Pretty cool, huh?” Charlie says.
“Not really,” I say.
Charlie rolls his eyes.
“Me next,” Brad says. “Do me.”
Brad goes, and then the other quiet kid goes. When it’s Benny’s turn, he looks scared. I say, “You don’t have to.”
“Shut up, pussy. We’re just having fun,” Charlie says.
“Let me try it,” Brad says. He locks his arm
around Benny’s neck. He starts to squeeze, and Benny’s face starts to turn red. His freckles seem to glow, making his face look like a giant strawberry. He starts slapping his brother’s arm. Benny is shaking his head, and starting to flail. Like he refuses to pass out.
“Let him go, Brad!” I shout.
But Brad is looking to Charlie, who shakes his head no. Brad doesn’t let up. Then, Benny punches Brad right in the crotch. They both crash to the ground.
I rush over to Benny. “You OK?”
Benny doesn’t say anything. He’s trying really hard not to cry.
“Your turn,” Charlie says to me. “You’re the only one who hasn’t gone.”
There’s no way I’m doing that. So I say, “After you go.”
“I already did it today,” Charlie says.
“I didn’t see your turn. Did any of you?” Everyone shakes their heads. “See?”
“I did do it. Twice.”
I ask, “Then why not a third time?”
“I don’t need to prove anything to you,” Charlie says. “Pussy.”
Ford repeats it, only he says, “Poothy!”
“Don’t use that word,” I say.
“Poothy!” Ford repeats, even louder. Everyone laughs, except me. So Ford keeps saying it, until Charlie gets annoyed.
“This is boring,” Charlie says. “Let’s do something else. Anyone have any whippits?”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“It’s when you suck nitrous oxide from a whipped-cream can.” Brad says this like everyone learns it in first grade. “It’s fun. Makes you feel all warm inside. Anyone have any whipped-cream cans at home?”
Everyone shakes their head, no.
“I know exactly what we can do. It’s practically the same thing,” Charlie says. “Follow me.”
I hate this Charlie kid, but I’m curious. I take Ford’s hand and trail behind everyone else. Charlie leads us between some giant hedges and the apartment walls. Several air-conditioner units are humming. Charlie kneels down and screws a cap off one of the tanks. He hunches over, and sucks on it. There’s a hissing sound as gas shoots into his mouth.
Free Lunch Page 8
